What?? I can't hear you!

The other day I went on a little health kick and walked up the hill (to the bottle shop). On my way out of the shop, I put my head phones back in and realised that the little black cover was missing from one of the earbuds. So I looked on the ground as I re-traced my steps then had a slightly odd conversation with the man in the shop trying to explain why I had returned so suddenly, and also why I was staring at the floor. I couldn't see it, so resigned myself to experiencing one cushioned ear only until I could afford the $7* required to purchase another packet of replacements.

I got home, poured my wine and wandered around the apartment looking for takeaway menus, which proved to be irritatingly elusive (CC - I know you read this: I think you are the culprit here! Perhaps they are stowed with the missing tea towels?? We will discuss this upon your return). I eventually found a menu and sat down to "cook" dinner. I compared dishes. I thought about the option of prawn crackers. I searched in vain on the menu for something called "exotic fish" that used to be my favourite thing to order from Stir Crazy but which they apparently no longer make. I felt something funny in my ear. I put my finger in my ear, and realised that the earbud cover had been sitting there all along. I felt like a dick. The End.

* Times are tough

Farmer 'Cow's Arse' James Drops A Bombshell

People on this show (The Farmer Wants A Girl Friday) don't simply tell each other things, they Drop Bombshells. Last night, Farmer 'Cow's Arse' James Dropped a Bombshell. The bombshell was that despite asking two women to stick their hand's up a cow's arse (but not asking the cow if it was ok) he... wait for it... doesn't feel a particular attraction to either woman, or to any of the cows.

Further developments in the program since last week are minimal, except that "Rough Diamond James" has been upgraded to "Larrakin Farmer James".

Finally, I have noticed a few trends: if you would like to date a farmer then making your skin orange and your hair blonde will improve your chances, as will being a Personal Assistant and/or coming from Queensland. if you become successful in your quest, you can expect to be taken on a 'date' by the farmer of your choice that involves sitting on the back of his ute. You should understand this to denote "Romance".

The Farmer Wants A General Dogsbody

I figure that nobody apart from me would watch crap like this, so taking a whole week to post about it really isn’t going to matter.

Q. what do you call a fugly pig dog when you are trying to make him sound at least vaguely appealing?
A. “Rough Diamond James”. It’s the human equivalent of “renovator’s dream”.

Q. What do you cook to impress the ladies if you are a “rough diamond”?
A. “chicken a la tinnie”. In other words, he actually shoved a can of beer up the chicken’s lady garden in place of the more traditional bread and onion stuffing.

I can’t be expected to remember all their names, so I’ll refer to most of the guys as variations on the theme “Farmer James”. At the other end of the spectrum from “Rough Diamond James” is “Wealthy Farmer James”. This is cheating a bit because he runs a winery, not a farm. The show’s producers make sure there are lots of shots where he is walking past a castle-like building and swilling wine in his glass and just generally looking expensive and unaffected by drought. He’s still a fugly pig dog though.

Wealthy Farmer James is faced with the difficult task of choosing a trophy wife from two identical looking women. He seems unimpressed by Kristy (not sure on the spelling: it’s probably Krystii or something) whose single talent is to fold a cloth napkin so that it looks like a chicken. She might have had better luck with Rough Diamond James. In the end, however, it seems he is put off not by the fact that she is a complete bimbo, but by the fact that she might want to have a career (as a model, naturellement).

Meanwhile, over on Farmer Howie James’ farm, Farmer Howie James is deciding that another Kristy might not be the right woman for him. “Why?” I hear you ask – well, because she didn’t want to put her hand up a cow’s arse. I haven’t been on a date for a while, but I didn’t realise the etiquette had changed so much. It did put things in perspective for me though. I started a new job last week, and every time someone apologised for how dull or boring the work was, I knew that it could be worse: at least I wasn’t expected to stick my hand up a cow’s arse.

I think it's really nice and wholesome when you can learn an important lesson like the one above (gratitude for your lot in life, in case you missed it) so I'm signing off now to see if this week's episode (screening in a couple of hours) will be as good.

Hello Captain Obvious: I'm Still Lazy

Quote of the Week that almost made me spit tea on my laptop goes to Square Jacob: "Miley Cyrus is bulimic, meaning that she can read minds."

Congrats J, your prize of $10 000 and a complimentary How-To-Handle-Paparazzi-As-A-Result-Of-The-Fame-That-Comes-From-Winning-This-Amazing-Prize are in the post.

Picture Label of the Week Goes to the last pic on this blog entry. I agree, she sure is.

A Postcard From The Land of Burgers and Bobby Brown

It might surprise some of my regular readers to learn that I have been accused of laziness on more than one occasion. I fear this is another such occasion. Rather than write a blog post myself, I am just cutting and pasting an email I got from CC the other day. I couldn't even be bothered editing any of it, except for potentially incriminating names, so just sit back and pretend you are reading an email from someone you know and love. I suggest you make up your own name for CC in order to personalise the experience. For example: Computer Cat, Corpus Christi, Coco Chanel, Colin Carpenter. (These are just a few examples totally off the top of my head). So here it is:

Dear [insert own name],

>>The US is HOT in both its sexy landscape and blistering sun. Good thing food is like half the price here and petrol is so cheap (I rub it on my body to cool down). I'm doing a lot of work in my dad's office, its like we work together but have no idea what the other one is saying.
>>
>> ME: Hey dad, is a tritone the same as a diminished fifth or does it depend on the underlying tonality?
>> DAD: I don't think a 10,000 pound I-beam is going to support a weighted load in the tropics.
>> MOM: Do you boys like carrots on your salad?
>> ME: (at same time) Yes!
>> DAD: (at same time) No!
>> NIECE: Can I have my salad with no lettuce and just bacon toppings?
>> ME: Like, you just want a side of bacon instead?
>> MOM: Of course dear.
>> DAD: CC, did you go to highschool with Geoff G---?
>> ME: Yeah.
>> DAD: I just fired him.
>> MOM: Have you seen Mad Hot Ballroom?

In answer to that final question Mrs C: yes, I have seen it twice.

In other news:
- one of the best shows on TV, like, EVER - The Farmer Wants A Scrag - is back for a second season and I need to share details about it but that will have to wait until I am feeling less lazy.
-WYD concerts are set to continue all week long and since I don't want to listen to Guy Sebastian read from the bible and talk about Jesus any more this week I am decamping to stay with AD and JB for a few days.

I Pray That It Will Soon Be Over

Q. what is more annoying than helicopters buzzing loudly around your apartment for several days during the APEC summit?

A. a two day long (and counting) sound check for the World Youth Day Celebrations that can be heard over the water.

I can tell it's a sound check because I can't see any crowds, but I can see a stage. This means that we'll have to hear the whole damn thing at least once more. How hard can "Alleluia" be, for goodness sake? There's only one damn word on repeat. The whole thing is giving me an unholy case of the irrits.

EDIT: What is worse than either of those things? Perhaps predictably - the two of them combined. I am currently at home, listening (against my will) to the mass AND to the helicopters that are swarming around to film it. I suppose smiting is a bit old fashioned, so God has chosen this method to punish me for being rude about the pilgrims. I note that the law allows people to harass the pilgrims, but I would warn you to beware that while you might not face retribution in an Earthly Court, you might still be held accountable for your actions at some time in the future... like the Day of Judgement...

The Adventures of Normal

I was thinking today about how remarkable stories always get told, but dull or average ones very rarely do. Stupidly, and for no particularly good reason, I thought I might go a little way toward rectifying that.

Childhood

Many things about my childhood were typical, average, unremarkable. There are some exciting adventures, some run-ins with crazy relatives, and lots of amusing things that resulted from children getting words wrong, animals embarking on feline/canine shenanigans, or mothers saying funny things when they were half asleep or stressed. I am not going to discuss any of those things right now.

So here are the Childhood Adventures of Normal: I have siblings and parents. I went to the dentist regularly, but not as often as I went to school. I didn't like Brussell sprouts but I did like ice cream.

I don't remember being toilet trained, but evidence suggests I must have been.

I did not display any outstanding talent for literary, scientific or mathematical genius. Nevertheless, I was not especially slow either. I was able to spell my last name by the time I was in Year 4, unlike the unfortunate Adrian Indy-andy-orio*.

My family didn't belong to a religious cult that made me bang saucepans and preach aloud in the local shopping centre on Saturday mornings, and I never suffered from any rare skin diseases or mysterious ailments that had an A Current Affair reporter interviewing my parents while I was filmed playing on the swing in the background, bandaged to the hilt.

So, all in all, pretty normal.

*Not his real name

J to the E to SUS

Here is a little story about religion to celebrate WYD which will soon create an APEC-esque feel to Sydenny once more (although as long as they keep the helicopters to a minimum this time it doesn't bother me too much).

There are some odd characters in the Zosia clan. Undoubtedly, one of the most colourful is Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty. When she found out that her brother was going to marry a (gasp) Catholic, she cut the family (ie: me, ultimately) out of her (considerable) will and left all her money and possessions to an Anglican boys home that had closed about 20 years before she died, and some nasty right-wing violent political organisation.

Although she was never swayed to change her will, she did once soften enough to talk to my Catholic grandmother about something they had in common - Jesus. I know, scintillating topic of conversation. So Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty brought out a holy card she had with an illustration on it of her mate J, and showed it to my grandmother. My grandmother looked at it and said, slightly amazed "He's got blue eyes in this picture. Jesus wouldn't have had blue eyes". Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty said "why not?" or "how do you know?" or something, to which my grandmother replied "well, because Jesus was a Jew". Scandalized, Dotty retorted furiously "He was not a Jew!!!"

And upon reflection, that is probably why she never changed her will.

Fickle Pickle

Robert Palmer, that elegant and romantic wordsmith once said "you might as well face it, you're addicted to love". I heard somewhere that originally it was "addicted to drugs" but someone suggested the change would have a wider commercial appeal. I think maybe there is another possibility: "you might as well face it, you're addicted to pickles". I have fallen off the wagon. I have just been on a pickle bender.

In a Bit of a Pickle

I developed an obsession with these tinned pickled cucumbers from Israel a couple of months ago, and things started to get out of hand quite quickly. They are not available just anywhere, so I've been planning my social schedule around the likelihood of passing a supermarket on the way home that stocks the cucumbers (AD, JB - I'm sorry. I don't love you, I've been using you purely for your proximity to my dealer).

I knew I had a problem when I found them in a new supermarket. As well as the normal size, they come in massive 3kg tins. My eyes glazed over, I hopped excitedly from one foot to the other like a toddler needing to wee but not wanting to leave the sweets table at a party. I tried desperately to form a coherent plan of action: should I take a photo of the tins? should I buy one and carry it on to the bus and then the ferry? Would I be able to carry it home if I abandoned all my other groceries? And were things like olive oil really that important anyway? I managed to get a grip on myself, and bought 2 tins of the normal size.

I've finally managed to overcome the addiction by the total overdose method. Yesterday I had bacon and pickles for breakfast, and just like the time Channel 7 showed 2 episodes of Ghost Whisperer in a row and I got sick of it, I knew part way into pickle number three that pickle number four would be my last.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I have a friend who I have known since I was 4 years old. In order to protect her identity I'll refer to her as Remma. You know how some people have on again/off again relationships but neglect to take note of the periods of time when they hated each other's guts when calculating the length of relationship time so they celebrate their milestone 6 week anniversary with bald-faced don't-you-dare-mention-the-time-he-pashed-skank-face-it-doesn't-matter-because-we-are-in-love...IN-LOVE-DAMMIT ... er, not sure where that sentence was headed but y'all know what I mean, right? Anyway, this friendship of mine is sort of the same as that. We have been friends for many years but there was the huge fight that lasted about 6 months where Ramanda and I ganged up on Remma. I think it was because she liked to watch Sooty and we didn't. And later there was a disagreement over whitegoods or something. But I'm still going to claim that we have been friends for about 25 years (the advanced maths students have just figured out how old I am).

Remma and I met and became friends in kindergarten because we had the same shoes and one day we wore each other's home by mistake. In that cute way that kids have, I didn't notice that mine were too tight and she didn't notice that hers were too loose. Reema's mother is actually the point of this post, and she's the reason that Remma and I became friends and also that I didn't spend the rest of the year with really really sore feet. She was organised, and had put Remma's name and phone number on the inside of her sandals. Naturally, my mother has always chosen the fast and loose approach to life (much like my sandals on Remma's feet) and shuns such rigid approaches to parenting (the vegie maths students have just figured out how old I am).

Because she's so different from mine, Remma's mother Rmargaret has always fascinated me. Whenever I stayed over at Remma's house I used to feel sort of like I was stuck in the Adelaide version of The Sound of Music except there was no telegram boy and they didn't have a summer house in the garden. They did have a cookoo clock though. Speaking of clocks, Rmargaret had the kids running like clockwork. she had all their lunches made and frozen a week at a time. There were almost as many kids in their house as the Von Trapps, especially if you counted Remma's dad Ravid, and since Ravid's lunches were also made and frozen for him I think he should count as one. Anyway, this is a very longwinded way of me building up to the finale, because I'm not sure anyone would believe me if I didn't set the scene first....

Every Sunday morning, the family were expected to eat breakfast together. Rmaragaret had a gong that she would bang to summon the household to the table at 9am on the dot. Ya-ha, a gong. And yes, there are two 9 o'clocks.